


Noxious

by anaisangel



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: Biting, Bloodplay, Breathplay, Character Study, Drabble Collection, Edgeplay, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Knifeplay, Masochism, Multi, Possessive Behavior, Rough Kissing, Sadism, Sexual Content, Short & Not So Sweet, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:33:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26634406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anaisangel/pseuds/anaisangel
Summary: It's an unconventional relationship, to say the least.
Relationships: Joker (DCU)/Reader
Comments: 26
Kudos: 85





	1. Fruitless Introspection

It’s a strange thing, what you do to him. He both resents and begrudgingly admires your ability to _get_ to him. What that entails, he isn’t entirely sure. He just knows he wants to grab you by the back of your head, and whether he slams you face first into the wall or smashes his paint slicked mouth over yours is a real toss up. 

Regardless of _that_ gamble, either way you’re bound to end up with a few bruises. They mottle your skin in an array of varying cycles of healing; purple, blue, an ugly yellow, and then he’ll top off that palette with a few strokes of red. Thin, superficial lines of crimson, his proverbial brush is a custom stiletto automatic switchblade, sharpened with intent. So yes, regardless of your fate any given day, so long as you are beside him, eager for that retribution for whatever long shot transgression he manifests in his head (to which you always and without fail accept), you are going to end the day with a physical reminder or two - _and that’s low balling._ The real kicker, he thinks, is that you have this _splendid_ way of walking around the next day with your chin held high and your composure taut - wearing his brand like a badge of honor. Maybe you _should_ get a badge, some participation medal because you’ve survived this long with him, and that’s quite a feat, even _he_ has to admit. 

Sometimes, in a brevity of guilt (even acknowledging it makes him angry), and most often after he loses the reins of his control, he’ll extend an olive branch. Well, _his_ definition of an olive branch. 

He’ll shove you to the corner of your mattress, sans bed frame and devoid of any warmth, and he will lay down beside you. He won’t say anything, won’t ditch the trench or the myriad of knives that reside in it’s pockets, and then he’ll wrap his arms around your midsection and yank you against him. The way you quiver, an almost imperceptible tremor that accompanies the piteous whimpers you’d often times give, do more to irritate him than anything. Still, he stays there, unnervingly silent and rigid behind you, until exhaustion pulls you under. 

It’s in these moments he thinks _he_ should get a medal for _patience_. 

And when you’re asleep, unaware and so enticingly vulnerable, he’ll loosen up; his broad shoulders would sink, his spine lax and his breathing deepen. He’ll smell the shampoo in your hair, run his leather clad hand up and down the slope of your flank, feel the rise and fall of your rib cage as your breathing mellows into a comfortable rhythm - your mind sinking further into a world where he doesn’t exist, and if he does, it would be an impostor in his visage. 

He doesn’t know what you dream of at night. With the pain of him fresh, the bruises and the lacerations and the bites still throbbing along the landscape of your body - is it like an echo, a transpose of agony that seeps into your dreams, morphing them into nightmares? He’d be lying if he said the idea didn’t thrill him. That he could turn the safe haven of your head into a birdcage, where you’re trapped in his hold within as well as out. 

And what is it, about this omnipotent control that he holds over you, that ignites some baser desire of possession, that he (dare he say) cherishes? The thought brings him back to square one, starting at the beginning. Something about you both infatuates and angers him; both of those in regards to him are deadly, but no matter how furious, how _irate_ , how opaque he sees red, he can never tighten his grip around your neck hard enough to snap it, can never push his stiletto blade far enough to extinguish you -

He can never kill you, and he hates that most of all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One thing I particularly enjoy about TDK’s Joker is his complete and utter disregard for everyone around him. As is true for many different versions, but something about him struck me as more malevolent, sadistic in his way as compared to other iterations. Yeah, he’s a bona fide, murderous asshole who shows zero empathy but harbors a terrifying grasp of human nature, but would that extend to himself, and the variable of a relationship? There’s that debate on whether he feels emotions at all, to which I think he does, just unconventionally. What would be a genuine and wholesome infatuation for one person would be a deeply rooted obsession and desire to control for him - it’s like his own special brand of affection. I also think he’d have to wrestle with that concept, and anyone who manages to capture his attention (lord help them) would be both loved and hated in equal balance. I think the closest thing this specific iteration of The Joker has gotten in terms of genuine endearment is in regards to Batman, and we all saw how that played out…


	2. Lead Me Astray

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My opinion: The Joker would be the pinnacle of mixing pain and pleasure. Here's a drabble about it.

He returned to the apartment looking nothing short of lethal. 

A smattering of some poor souls viscera mottles the front of his vest, some had spilled over his purple gloves to dry in a tacky layer of crimson. Although his eyes harbor a perpetual depth to them, tonight they glimmer with an intriguing deviance that makes your heart flutter about in your chest - like a fretful humming bird locked in the cage of your ribs. 

There’s a hunger there, as well. You’re not certain if it’s an appetite for more bloodshed, looking to further ride the high that murder gives him, or something more debauched. You suppose, as he kicks the door shut with his foot while not once looking away, it can very well be both. 

The thought makes you shudder in anticipation. 

He advances much like a predator, shedding his trench on the long stride of his legs as you quickly stand at attention. The gloves are still on, and as he takes your face in his hands, cradling either side of your jaw with his fingers burrowed into the soft palette below your ears, you can feel the viscous sensation of blood adhere to your skin. 

His mouth is a monstrous thing; the corded flesh of his scars brush against your cheeks like yielding ridges, the split down his lower lip traced with the tip of your tongue and the taste of bitter greasepaint. He makes a noise against you, a low hum that catches gravel in his throat, and when he kisses back it’s as though he means to devour you whole. 

He bites and growls and what a fantastic, _wicked_ thing his mouth is - capable of silvery words and cutting affronts alike. He takes your lower lip, bites it too hard and it splits and floods your mouth with copper. He groans at the taste, you hiss at the pain, and it’s only absently that you follow the way he pushes your body. Hands since migrated to your hips, curling over the crescents of them through your thin clothes hard enough to ache dully. 

Your hands fall to his chest, to the buttons of his vest, thickly coated with blood and it’s not enough to deter you from working it open, nor the dress shirt beneath that. When the heat of his skin is revealed, you paint his sternum with your fingers. 

The wall hits your back, and he presses his body taut against yours as he takes a handful of your hair and gives a neat tug to the side. A whine, and you follow suit, exposing the long expanse of your throat and what you expect is a fierce bite - what you’re given is a ghostly, tantalizing kiss against your pulse point. 

Your breath leaves you with a quick shudder, catching with a small moan when he pushes his hips against yours. It’s oddly intimate for him, having not pinned you against the wall and fucked you into a stupor already. 

This might be _different_ , this might be something entirely new, an impulsive act of tenderness - you hear the familiar _shlick_ of his switchblade and your heart leaps. 

The way he smiles against your neck makes you wonder if he felt it. 

_Bloodthirsty_ , but this felt more dangerous than before. Calculated, the way he uses the tip of the blade to lift the loose hem of your shirt. The barely there sting as it kisses your lower stomach. 

You’re aware that what you _should_ be feeling is fear, but as he follows the tendon of your neck up to dock at your ear, taking the cusp of cartilage between his teeth with a growl, you can’t find the means. 

Against all your better judgement, you trust him not to end your life. Tearing you to pieces - _that’s_ another story. 


	3. A Cut Above

_It’s only fair_ , he thinks. 

_An eye for an eye, what’s yours is mine, your pain is my pain_ \- he really couldn’t care _what_ excuse he wedges in there, and really he wouldn’t bother with an excuse but the grateful glimmer in her eyes is just _too_ damn _precious_ to squash. 

She thinks it’s a privilege, an honor of sorts, and he revels in that mystified look in her eyes as she drags the knife across his skin. It’s really a win-win; the salacious way the blade splits the surface, the reverence she employs as she does it. It’s a flood for him, how the pain of it melds together with the pleasure, how it kindles the dominance in him despite being the one marred. 

He’s perfectly content letting her marvel at what she thinks is a prerogative; he will admit, there’s no one out there, not even the Bat’s, who can hurt him and feed his ego in such an equal balance; all tied up with the pretty ribbon of devotion, and she would hang herself with that ribbon, still desperate to please. 

The Joker doesn’t love a whole lot, and he wouldn’t go so far as to say he loves _her_ , but rather the way she looks at him, the way she trusts him ( _bad idea, but I’m no voice of reason_ ), the way she flayed her pseudo innocence and stood before him like a blank canvas for him to paint on. 

It’s slow going to start. She straddles his waist, both her hands wrapped around the hilt of his stiletto blade like she’s bracing herself, fighting against the tremor that he can visibly see - he makes it harder, because he can, _because it’s fun_ , and he pushes her hips and kickstarts a roll, feels her tighten around him and hears her cracked moan and it’s great, and fine and _dandy_ but it’s missing something - it’s missing the _bite_. 

“C’mon.” He growls, low and throaty and she nods, knowing but it’s hard to focus when he’s buried to the hilt and the friction of it renders her a mess. She plants a hand on his chest, fingers splayed and searching for balance and he bucks up into her - she whines, curls her fingers into his chest and he tries not to be annoyed, but he’s itching from the inside out and the knife in her hand is _plenty_ sharp enough to reach it. 

“...J,” She moans and bites her lip, and then she brings the knife to his chest, center sternum, right below the divot where collarbones meet. It’s a cold kiss first, the tip of it barely piercing into him and his breath intakes sharply with anticipation. 

He knows she’s timid, she wants to do it right, she doesn’t want to hurt him - _but she does_ , and he can read conflict on her face like it was written in a language only he understands, but it makes him angry nonetheless. A low noise rumbles in his chest, dissatisfied. She’s learning to read him, but it feels like turning aimlessly through a tome she scarcely comprehends. 

Still, she knows, and she looks at him with half-lidded eyes, turned liquid with arousal and the need to please. The knife pushes further, sinks further and blood beads to the surface in a string of crimson pearls, following the point of the blade as it leads achingly slow. 

It feels like when you’re on the edge of sneezing, and it doesn’t _fucking_ happen. Like scratching around the itch, missing it by a hair or freckle. 

He abandons his grip on her hips and his hands depart to their separate destinations; wrapped around her slight wrist in an iron vise, the other buried in her hair, knuckles to scalp with a tug. She follows without hesitation, like being tugged on a leash. 

“Lemme _show_ you.” He breathes, and pushes on her hand. 

Her eyes widen, dart from his face to the blade that had sunk significantly deeper. It rushes him, forces him to shudder and groan; white hot at the center, it seeps out like a ripple of gratification through his veins. She’s got that look again - marveled, _mesmerized_. Her hips stutter and he bucks against her, gorges himself on the bittersweet euphoria with a throaty growl. 

They stop at the sinuous curve of his ribs, and each inflated breath he takes tugs and throbs and it’s _fucking exquisite._ Their bodies move together, no rhythm or pace, no etiquette but the sordid chase for pleasure. She looks like she’s found it; she kneads at his chest, pulls at the split skin recklessly, gasps and moans and dances atop him. 

_not yet,_ **_not yet_ **

He moves, shakes her entire world and flips her onto her back hard enough to knock her moan into a gasp. The knife slips from her hand, landing beside them and she looks up at him with a halo of hair around her head, glowing in the dim lighting. He kisses her, pushes against her and fills her until she whines in his mouth. Her fingers dance over the scars on his face, stealing a moment with them before slipping into his hair. When he bites her, she flinches and he reaches for the knife. 

He likes to skirt it across her skin, to etch it into the yielding softness of her stomach, or her thighs, or her breasts; never too deep, he doesn’t want to break her - _yet_ \- but he doesn’t this time. This time, he mirrors her and presses the knife into her chest, and it’s like an echo, _he can feel it_ , his own chest throbs and she tightens beneath him and grits out a moan. 

Her eyes are heavy, glossy - brimming with pain and gratification and adoration; like she’s receiving retribution from her maker. 

_It’s only fair_ , he grins.


	4. In Threes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a little drabble I wrote after watching the funeral scene, wherein the Joker deals with his frustration after Gordan saves Mayor Garcia. He didn’t look too happy, is what I’m sayin...Might write a continuation, if anyone’s interested.

He finds it difficult to focus. 

Countless splits his mind takes in that moment; darting out in a proliferation of spindly avenues like blood seeping into the cracks of shattered glass. It’s this exact loss of control that he _despises_. When he can’t determine what he wants to focus on because everything is tinged crimson with anger, everything looks the fucking _same -_ and he broods, uncharacteristically silent in the passenger seat of the police cruiser as his driver, Eddie? Mickey? Ends with fucking _‘ey’_ drives like he’s dropping off grandma at _Sunday gathering_ when a block behind them a funeral turned into a riot ( _that_ was expected) and the wrong guy is dead on stage ( _that_ was _not_ expected). 

Still, he considers himself a glass-half-full kinda guy; _so, let’s count ‘em up._

Gordan, Gordan, _Gordan_. Ever the good guy, ever the _righteous_ -almost a _shame_ that he excused himself from whatever _fun_ there was sure to be had in favor of being a _human shield._ He’d mourn, but that would entail he would _miss_ the old man. 

Then there’s the little things. 

Little they may be, but happiness comes in threes and the Joker’s determined not to let this little setback ruin a _good_ _day_. Number two on the docket, undoubtedly he’s stretching here, but his driver,Eddie, Mickey, _let’s just call him Buddy for now,_ isshaking like a leaf in fall and has that _trapped in the lions cage_ vibe about him. 

It’s refreshing, really. A little bit of fear goes a long way for a bad mood, and the Joker hums and shifts enough that he can slide a hand down into the front right pocket of his police slacks. 

“Hit the brakes, _speedy_.” He says, and Buddy goes from twenty-five to a slow stop in the next alleyway. “I’ve got _someplace_ to be, mind if _I_ take the wheel?” 

Joker flicks his blade open, leans over the console and Buddy frets and opens his mouth like a gaping fish out of water. He swings his arm across and sinks the blade into his throat, smooth and quick and now he _sounds_ like a fish out of water - gurgle, gasp, panic noises _(heard ‘em all)_ when he yanks out the knife at the right angle, tearing buddy a sizeable new hole through his trachea. He flails a bit, goes through the motions; wraps his fingers around his throat, eyes like protruding marbles, mouth opens and shuts, opens and shuts - 

“You don’t look so _good_ ,” Joker leans in, drinks up the terror that radiates from him with saccharine empathy, “why don’t you get some air, _hm?”_

Leaning over him, he tugs open the door. Buddy slumps out easily enough, and makes a decent speedbump on the way out. He takes liberty of the cruisers lights, keeping the siren on standby despite the urge to flick it on and carve himself a way through Gotham’s insufferable traffic. Cars mosey on out of the way at at their leisure, the fresh bite of blood in the air coasting him through like an addict tasting the bitter salt of a hit mid drought. 

He grins, and thinks about number three. 

. 

You’re watching the news, sitting at the edge of your seat as anchorman Richard Kean delivers the latest event to plague Gotham. 

_...Chaos takes over Midtown as the publicised funeral of Commissioner Loeb falls prey to terrorism. Although no tangible evidence has been made, it is highly believed that The Joker is indeed involved..._

The screen flashes to a freezeframe of his now infamous face, pulled from his debut video featuring one Brian Douglas. He’s mid laugh, mouth wide with his painted scars on full display. You can almost hear him, cackling and whooping as he cavorts his stolen camera around the kitchen of _Sam’s Deli._

Three loud, jarring _thumps_ against your front door rattle it in the frame, jolting you off the sofa and carrying you across the living room. The television’s left on, Richard’s voice relaying the breaking news in the background as you peer out the small peephole. Everything’s black, and you’ve got a growing suspicion in your gut as you slowly unlock the door. 

You see the uniform first, attention flicking to his mangled mouth when he speaks. 

“Evening _ma’am._ “ he grins, before pushing his way into your apartment, and everything happens too quick to register; his gloved hand stretches out, curls into your shoulder and twists you around, and you follow with a small whine when he guides you far enough to slam the door shut with his foot. Next thing you know, you’re spinning again and your cheek is kissing the wood of the door. 

“Got a call about some, ah... _suspicious_ activity.” He leans in as he says it, wedges you tight between the door and the solid length of his body. 

“That so?” You inquire, ignoring the static of alarm and the spike in your heart rate, hammering away in your chest. 

You knew he’d be back around, you just didn’t know exactly _when_. He likes to keep it a surprise, you’ve learned. Maybe he’s living up to his reputation of unpredictability, or he simply pays you a visit whenever it strikes his fancy, but regardless, it’s almost impossible to anticipate; you’d be lying if you said you didn’t like that about him. 

“Mhm.” He hums, bringing both hands up and laying them on your shoulders before slowly smoothing them down your arms. “Got a warrant to search, and _mind_ you - I’m _very_ thorough.” He sounds playful, but the way his fingers dig their way into your wrists send a different message. 

“I take it Loeb’s funeral went well?” You test, like dipping your toe into the water. 

You can feel him gather your wrists in his left hand, his long fingers digging harshly into your skin as he moves behind you. Metal clicks sharply; handcuffs. They’re cold like ice when he tightens them around you. 

“That’s _confidential_ , doll. Police matters, you _understand_.” He bites the words out on the side of harsh. 

He doesn’t want to talk about it, that much is clear. Which means it most certainly did _not_ go according to plan. Which leaves what happens next up in the air; the Joker may be a man of chaos, but even _he_ acknowledges a well executed plan. You’ve been privy to his celebration, you bore the bruises after he killed Gambol and swept up his men in the process. The real question, you think as he secures the other cuff tight enough to indent your skin, is what happens when he’s _angry?_

“Word of advice -” he begins, curling his fingers into the hair at the back of your head. You follow the movement when he tugs. _“don’t resist.”_

You can’t see him, but you feel him; solid and strong against you, smelling of whatever cologne had embedded into his borrowed officer’s uniform and the familiar combination of gasoline and tobacco. When he brings his mouth to your ear, you can decipher the mottled flesh of his scars brushing against the cartilage. You think he’s smiling. 

A shiver glides down your spine, stomach coiling with anxiety and the undeniable arousal that you befall whenever he touches you. 

“Yes sir.” You breathe. 


	5. In Threes | 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> breaking the mold here with a 5k fic - explicit sexual content ahead, including **knifeplay, bloodplay, choking/breathplay, possesive behavior, rough oral sex** , so mind your comfort zones, darlings!

_Ruin and ravage_  
 _Make me your priestess  
_ _Wreck me to pieces_

— Kerli, _Where the Dark Things Are_

* * *

Your breath stalls out for a moment, body anchored in place with the Joker's tight grip on the rein of your hair.

His mouth ghosts from the cusp of your ear down the column of your neck, nose brushing just barely against your skin with a small hum. It's not unpleasant; your eyes flutter closed and you give a small sound of agreement as his free hand smooths it's way down the middle of your torso, fingertips dipping beneath the waistband of your pants just enough to make you shiver. 

"Any _sharp_ objects I should know about?" He asks, snapping you back to reality. Retreating from where you want them most, his fingers splay against your stomach, pulling you taut against him with a sharpness that punches a gasp from you. 

"No, sir." You're quick to reply, a jolt shooting up your spine when you feel him through his blue slacks, hard and straining. You dare a roll of your hips, grinding against him tentatively. He responds with a neat tug on your hair, pulling your head back far enough to touch his shoulder. 

With a wince and a whine from you, he goes on, "You wouldn't _lie_ to an officer of the _law_ , hm?," he throws the words out with mocking inflection, the tail end of a growl making it's way into his voice. 

Shaking your head quick, it's almost a whisper this time. "No, sir." 

His hand pushes on your stomach, draws you nearer as a thoughtful hum rumbles in his chest. 

Whatever courage you have is quickly dwindling; the Joker is a difficult man to read, his expressions rolled out with practiced emotion that always land in the realm of uncanny, but the difference in him right now is _startlingly_ clear. His voice is pitched with gravel, weaved with an underlying malice you can practically _feel._ Knowing him the way you do, even if it is just a glimpse behind the mask, it isn't hard to come to the conclusion that you are in _dangerously_ over your head. 

Fear, baser and raw, crawls beneath your skin, seeps from your pores in a cold sweat that simmers with the closeness of him. You feel dizzy, that sensation fueled when Joker lets your hair go, his hands firmly grasping the soft flare of your hips to spin you in place. Stumbling, you fall back against the wall and flinch at the pressure against your cuffed wrists. 

Your heart is slamming itself against your sternum, hollow and loud but it's not nearly enough to distract you from the sight of him. 

Barefaced, his skin is a pale bloom stained from his greasepaint. Darkness shadows beneath his eyes, how they look even more piercing without the abyss surrounding them is mesmerizing. The hat he was wearing is gone, his hair a tangled mess of faded green and grease-darkened brown. Your attention falls to his mouth then, lingering on the gnarled flesh with distant appreciation. For the multitude of times you've felt him against you, it was always with the bitter bite of greasepaint. Beneath the fear, there's the urge to kiss him; to taste his bare skin, trace the distinct fissures of those scars with your tongue.

His knife flicks open with a crisp slide of metal, and you watch as his scars bunch and morph to accommodate a monstrous grin. 

Breath catches when he comes in close, bending himself over you in a way that lets him peer down the plane of your body. The tip of the knife kisses your stomach, a pinprick that scarcely breaks the surface of skin has your breath coming in choppy. Warning bells are going haywire in your head, but the heat of him is distracting, the familiar scent of him wrapping itself around you like a personalized aphrodisiac. 

He lifts the hem of your shirt with the knife, ghosting it upwards. You keep the whine that threatens to escape you trapped behind your teeth, but as the knife skims over your navel, he presses down, hard enough you can feel the way it splits the surface. The instinct to flail, squirm out from between him and the door is immediate; muscles constricting through impulse, the thought of just _how sharp_ that knife is the only thing keeping you in place.

Your whine morphs into a hiss, eyes screwing shut as he draws a line right up the middle of your torso, bisecting you with a clean stoke of crimson. He's cut you before, but not like this. This is calculated, it's _patient_ and rooted in something far more sinister than a quick dose of adrenaline mid-fuck. Your head drops back against the door when he pulls away, legs buckling, body trembling, fear roots itself to your bones. 

"Ah," he tuts once, sharp and scolding, "gonna need you to _pay attention."_ His hand finds your hair again, grasping at the crown of your head with a sharp tug forward. Through heavy lids you watch as he angles the knife in his hand, the blade of it jutting through the cotton material of your shirt. It tears through with ease, like scissors on a smooth glide of wrapping paper. 

The cool air touches the fresh laceration with a sting, chest stuttering with your breath and pulling at the split skin. That pain a ghost as he moves in closer, skims his fingers over your stomach before pressing his gloved thumb against the starting point above your navel. 

"W-Wait— _ah!"_ Throwing yourself back, you tug on the cuffs until your wrists burn, twist and flail against the door but he is relentless, _determined_.

For what, you're unsure. A dark thought is pushed to the forefront through the fog— _is this the end of the line for you?_ It's an unwelcome thought that's made a home in the recesses of your mind, locked up because it's easier that way; it's the _only_ way you're capable of enduring his affection, but this doesn't feel like affection. This _isn't_ affection; this is sick, wicked and _evil—_ but _God_ , why do you so desperately want to close that sparse distance between your faces and taste his bare skin? 

Words become impossible, you're struggling to keep afloat, quickly drowning in the dry pain of that white glove dragging itself though you. He continues to hold your head in the palm of his hand, his fingers curled against your scalp. You're positive your legs are going to give out, a tremor shaking you when he leans in to kiss your neck. A gentle touch first, gliding down to the hollow of your shoulder where he draws the skin between his dull teeth in a brutal bite.

You give a stuttering cry, crumbling against the wall. He pushes his knee up between your legs abruptly, keeping you in place. The pressure is jarring, forcing a moan from you as he finally pulls away, leaving you breathless and shaken. You burn with barely veiled shame as you roll your waist downward, seeking pleasure to accompany the pain. 

"Look at me." He demands with a growl. You don't think about it, lids fluttering open with delirious acknowledgement, body stuttering. 

It's _intense_ ; his pupils are blown, dilated with a hunger that pierces right through you. Fair brows pulled together, mouth set in a firm line, he looks you over pointedly. It's times like this you wish you knew what he's thinking. When the Joker is put on the backburner and it's just _him_. There is no jeering gleam in his eye, no wicked smirk on his mouth.

The man before you is someone you don't know.

"Please." You whisper absently, unsure of what you even want anymore.

He lingers a moment, boring into you in a way that feels more intimate than cutting you to pieces, when he suddenly closes that distance and slats his mouth over yours. Chaste is a brevity, he laves your lower lip in a demanding coax, nipping the plush flesh once before licking past your teeth with a groan that reverberates in your mouths. Pressing himself close again, he drags the stiff fabric of his officer jacket along your torso, swallowing the hiss you give.

Yanking your hair, he forces your head at an angle to better devour you. 

The dizzying combination of pain and pleasure has you feeling lightheaded, your moan cracking right down the middle with a full body shudder. He replies with a deep in his chest groan, driving his knee higher between your legs until you're flush against him. You're pushing down on instinct, rolling your hips and grinding against the hardness of his thigh, desperately fanning embers of arousal, clinging to morsels of pleasure in hopes the high of it will keep you numb.

He ends the kiss with you leaning into him, chasing the taste of his bare skin with a piteous whine. 

With a hum, he brings his gloved fingers, now stained with your blood, to your mouth. He swipes his thumb across then pulls your lower lip down in a mock pout. A copper piquancy floods your senses as you look up at him, bleary eyed with pearls of tears you didn't realize were there. 

"Oh, what's the _matter_ , doll?" He taunts, pushing past your lips to press down on your tongue. The blood seeps from the glove, sharp and bitter. "It's the uniform, isn't it? I know, _I know_. Should've dressed as something more, ah... _trustworthy_. A _lawyer_ , maybe." 

He's cracking jokes. Your blood is on his hands, he's rendering you to pieces with a terrifying ease that leaves room for _jokes._ You want to retort with something that might ease the tension; stroke his ego, lob a morbid joke into the space between you, but his thumb presses down harder on your tongue, silencing you. You're inclined to believe nothing you can say will change this moment, nothing will turn the tides and lure him out of his current headspace; you've seen him angry before, but it wasn't anything like this.

You're lost here, treading unknown waters. Still, you tread; swirling your tongue around his thumb with a small sound of yearning. The taste of metal making your stomach roll, but something about it spurs scintillas down your spine. Pleading desperation has you peering up at him through your lashes, and something flickers in his dark eyes. In a movement too quick to register he brings his knife-wielding hand up with intent. 

Panic comes first, followed with heavy dismay that you've done something wrong, compounded into a flash of a second as he lunges forward and stabs the blade into the door, right beside your head. A sharp scream bursts from your lips, eyes screwing shut as you jerk back away from him, going rigid. Sucking against his teeth with dissatisfaction, his grip on your hair tightens and he pulls, tearing you from the door and onto your unsteady legs. 

"Now, you ah, _have_ the right to remain _silent_ ," He says, tugging you along as he maneuvers the familiar space of your apartment, "but you know how us _officers_ are. _Vigilant_ ," yanking hard, he pushes you in front of him and through the doorway into your bedroom. You nearly trip, catching yourself on nothing as you turn to face him.

"J, wait-" Your heart is pounding so fast you can feel it in your temples. He's working the tie off from around his neck, advancing into the darkness of the room.

 _"determined,"_ breaking the word apart as he says it, "and of course, _corrupt_."

"I don't know what you're talking about _J_ — _I don't_ -" You begin, true fear and the chill of the room stippling goosebumps into your skin. 

"You ever heard of the saying; _sing_ like a _canary?"_ He cuts you short. Sliding the the tie off, he gives it a thoughtful glance before tossing it behind you. The movement makes you flinch, shake your head and step back further. 

"What are you _talking_ about?" You're voice is shaking, ready to shatter on your tongue. The edge of the bed touches your calves, he's working off the blue officer's jacket, broad shoulders shimmying the fabric free with an underlying urgency.

"What about... _squeal like a pig?"_ Quirking his head just barely as he asks, mannerisms of a clown seep into him as he tosses the jacket aside carelessly. Without the greasepaint it seems exponentially more terrifying. The television's leaking sound into the room, and you watch as he glances up at the ceiling with a slow blink, his mouth quirked into a strange grimace of a smirk as he pauses whatever the _hell_ this is and listens; 

_...An attempt on Mayor Garcia's life during the publicized funeral of Commissioner Loeb has been prevented. Eyewitness' report the brave actions taken by Lieutenant James Gordan, jumping to action just seconds before..._

You can feel your heart progressively sink with each word, and then his gaze drops to you, a pointed look that drives this nightmare into something too surreal, shoving an icepick of dread right through your skull and freezing you in place. You're crying, it registers when you close your eyes and feel the tears seep through your lashes, and you can hear him approaching; the brush of clothing, the increasingly strong scent of him, the dread.

For the life of you, you can't decipher what it is he _wants_. It's terrifyingly possible that the _only_ thing he wants is to watch you suffer; to be his stress relief, to endure his anger. But it's never that simple, nothing with him is. Whatever resolve you have is quickly dissipating, anticipating his long fingers wrapping around your throat any second, but they don't come—they land on your shoulder, curl into the hard bone. 

"We can do this the _easy_ way, or the _hard_ way." He says it like there's an option. The small sound that escapes you is pitiful, broken. 

"I d-don't know what you _want_ , J." You stutter, daring a glace up at him. His expression, a faux softness, twists into something gleefully baleful. You're absently aware of the naked flesh of his forearms, sleeves rolled up to reveal the corded muscle there. 

A strange growl of a hum rumbles in his chest, "I've always been a fan of the _challenge_." Tightening his grip, he presses down on your shoulder until your legs buckle.

"On your knees, _now_." The edge of danger dances on his tongue, coating his words in a wicked cadence. You do so, succumbing shakily before him, dropping down and looking up at him with fearful expectation—despite it all, your position makes your stomach flutter, pushing desire through you like a forced hit of dopamine. 

He drags his tongue over his lower lip, his hand briefly brushing your hair from your face before promptly working the belt around his narrow hips. You know where this is going, have enough sense left in your shaken brain to acknowledge how unpleasant this is going to be for you, but the image of him, the _familiarity_ of it all is forcing pulses of heat between your legs. A piece of you is mortified at how the heat spreads, slowly consuming you as you watch the way his large hand wraps around his cock, stroking himself slowly. 

His free hand finds your hair, pulling it fiercely and angling your head back. You follow with a compliancy reserved for these moments. 

"Open." Is all he says, and you do, silently wishing for a gentleness you know he does not possess.

The head of his cock is heavy on your tongue, leaking a translucent white, bitter and distinct; you give a small, involuntary whine, a sound that is too close to pleading. His mangled mouth curls into a deviant smirk, knowing and smug, and then he's pushing forward. Too quick, too much _too soon_ ; your jaw aches to accommodate him, throat tensing and muscles constricting with the intrusion. 

You draw back instinctively, seeking relief and the suddenly precious concept of air. He gives a neat tug of your hair, yanking you forward to shove more of his length down your throat, spurring your reflexes and making you squirm, tugging on the cuffs painfully. It's a fierce amount of will that you don't bite down, keep your mouth open as much as you can and fight through the sharp ache of your jaw; your weak determination is rewarded with a low groan, the kind that coaxes desire within you like you've been trained to it.

It makes you look up, and you immediately regret it. 

Through your tear muddled vision you catch his eyes, dark and unwavering, half-mast lids heavy with arousal. His mouth is partially open, tongue darting out to lick at his lips with what you can only assume is wicked anticipation. It lights your skin on fire, hurls you into a fog where all you want is to watch him, to absorb the lewd satisfaction on his face as he pulls back a marginal amount and thrusts forward.

You choke, gag and, _fuck_ — _fuck you hate him so much_ , you _moan_. 

His laugh is short and wicked, "You've, ah, got some _experience_ in the _interrogation_ scene, don't ya?" He's gradually building up a pace, not giving you a chance to answer as each forward stroke sends him further. He hits the back of your throat, jolting tears in your eyes and the innate instinct to gag, spit dribbling down your chin. You screw your eyes shut and endure when he starts the tug and pull of your hair, fucking your mouth. 

Panic seeps out from your chest like your heart is pumping out pure adrenaline. Distantly, you can hear the growls that accent his heavy breaths, feel the searing pain of your scalp as his grip tightens further, pulling you impossibly close. You dig your nails into your palms hard enough to bleed, fighting the lightheaded sensation that ekes it's way in.

You lose track of time, don't know how long he's been doing this, but each passing stroke grows shorter, more shallow, whittling down that iota of air until you're on the verge of suffocation. Your face is wet, stained with tears and spit and you're pulling back, fighting against him through sheer instinct. He doesn't like that—the deep, threatening snarl that pierces through your obscene noises makes your heart leap, and with that he gives a brutal pull of your hair, pulling you flush against him. 

He pulses on your tongue, floods your mouth with a growl so deep it's borderline animalistic, but he doesn't pull away. He keeps you there, anchored in place with his cock down your throat and you struggle against him, flail and squirm because you're lungs are white hot in your chest and your vision is quickly fogging up with a border of black. 

"You're, _ah...takin'_ it like a _champ._ " He's breathless in his own right, impish amusement in his voice. Like he's milking this moment for all it's worth, his grip on your hair loosens and he pats your head with heavy condescension, ignoring the way you struggle, before finally, _finally_ pulling away. 

You throw yourself back against the bed; choking and gasping for air, your face burning and wet. The taste of him lingers on your tongue as you fight to ease the throb in your lungs, to pull your coherence back because everything feels distant, muddled and far. When he tugs on your hair the pain of it hardly registers. 

"Up, up _up_." He says, sounding facetious and far too cheerful for the moment. You manage to stand, your body stumbling forward, forehead pressing against his broad shoulder. He snickers, you give a weak cry when he jerks your head back. 

He's looking at you with scrutiny, eyes narrowed and dark, pupils dilated to staggering depths. 

"Nothin' to _say_ , huh?" 

Shaking your head you rasp, "I-I don't know-"

"Fine by me, doll. I've got _other_ ways of making you _talk_." 

You don't have time to react; he smashes his mouth over yours in a particularly messy kiss, his tongue dashing behind your teeth, tasting himself. With a startling lack of patience, he pulls away and spins you around, a firm shove against your shoulder toppling you forward onto the mattress. It rattles your brain around, dredges up potential answers to his ever cryptic desire— _what does **fuck** he want me to say? _

The all encompassing fear that he really _will_ kill you if you don't tell him is harrowing.

"J, _please_ —I don't know what y-you want me to _say_." 

He ignores you, wedges his arm beneath you to hoist you up onto your knees, your face pressing into the clean linens of your bed. There's no preamble; he tugs your pants down, a cool draft caressing your skin, raising goosebumps. You visibly startle when his hand, gloveless now, lays palm flat against your lower back. He comes in close, nudging the head of his cock against your cunt and spurring a small moan from you. You're not as wet as you need to be, you're both acutely aware of that, but that doesn't stop your body from cantering back against him, thoughtlessly seeking the stretch to come. 

His hand glides up your back hard enough you feel his palm against the notches of your spine, his weight slowly sinking down onto you, oppressing you. 

"What I _want_..." he starts, his voice pitched low, "is what _all_ _good_ officers want. I want to hear the _truth_." 

He's pressing against you now, a pressure that promises pain, his hand since wrapped around the back of your neck, anchoring you to the bed. You're frantically trying to decipher what he means— _The truth? What the fuck does that mean?—_ when he thrusts forward with an unexpected amount of force, shoving those thoughts out of you in the form of a shout. 

" _F-Fuck_ , fuck _—J!"_

Your spine arches, trying to curl into yourself. He doesn't give you that option, his other hand pressing into the middle of your back, forcing a curve that has your chest near flat against the bed, the fresh laceration burning with the friction. Your thighs are shaking, barely withstanding the weight of him as he pushes further, sinks further, fills you to the point you're positive you're going to tear in half. "P-Please, please— _ah!_ " you stutter, reach out with heavy breaths because his grip on your neck is _crushing_. 

And the _stretch—_ you can't think because it's agonizing, _intoxicating_. A dry pain that radiates with a dull throb, pounding in every vein of your body. You burn with shame as you push back against him, seek more of it, your face red hot and streaked with fresh tears. You're not sure what it is; whether it's _him_ that dredges it up in you or it was simply lying in wait, but the hurt is spurring you on, making you clench around him with a strangled whine. 

"Look at you." He bites, his words dripping with venom. Drawing back, leaving you feeling empty and aching, he thrusts forward hard enough your shoulders strain, your scream buried in the bedsheets. "You're practically _begging_ for it, doll—just _can't_ ," he thrusts again, punctuating his words, " _fucking_ ," fingers tighten around your neck, _"admit it."_

It clicks.

 _Control_ —it's about _control_. You should have pieced it together sooner, should have _known._ He lost control today, and he's going to find the epitome of it in _you_. The thought makes you shudder, but you don't have the means to tell him what he wants—to even _try_. It's too much, hurts like you're being torn apart from the inside, melded back together with that sliver of pleasure each thrust delivers. He's grazing that especially sensitive patch of nerves, hidden away but he knows _exactly_ where it is, exactly how to ghost past it, dangling the promise of mitigation before your eyes. 

"C'mon, _speak up_." He snarls between his heavy breath, his movements picking up to a steadfast pounding, frying any sense of coherence you have. Your moans punch from your lungs each time his hips meet your ass, the slick sound of it making you burn red hot, tighten around him and whimper. 

"I-I....I w-want it— _you!_ I want— _ah!"_ He gives a prompt growl, pushing his cock so deep it physically hurts. 

"Try again." Lowering his torso, he curves over you, shelters you in the heat of his body. You're drooling, the bed soaked where your mouth is pressed flush. 

_Can't think._

You can't think. He's inexorable, fucking you so hard you think the bedframe might _actually_ break, the head of it repeatedly banging against the wall. Tension curls in your stomach, your body winding up like all your nerves are being tugged on, taut and ready to snap—he severs it all when he pushes impossibly deep and _stops_. 

Your mouth drops open, brows cinched together tight as you try and endure the crushing pressure, the abrupt halt to euphoria. 

"It's there, doll, in this _pretty little head_ of yours." He grabs your hair, jostles your head. You give a delirious whine in response. "I can, ah, _spell it out_ for you, but I don't think _either_ of us want that." 

_Control._

You cry out the first thing that comes to mind, praying that it's what he wants, that it's enough. 

"Y-Yours! I'm yours! P-Please... _please_." Your chest is on fire, you're sure that you're bleeding again, skin chaffed against the sheets and staining them with your blood. Your body is vibrating, pushed so close to the edge and riddled with discarded pleasure you don't know how you'll survive if he doesn't take you there. The weight on your neck lifts, rushing damp air into your lungs as he brings his face close to your own, hand stroking your hair. 

"Now was _that_ so _hard?"_ He sounds too kind, too sweet. You're rolling your hips back against him, barely managing to touch the friction your body sings for. "You've got the _idea_ , but uh...let's make sure to _drive it home."_

He moves so quick you don't register it at first; pulling himself up, hands leaving your body to grasp both ends of the tie he'd discarded earlier. He shoves it beneath your head, tugs it down until it's at your throat and that panic from before resurfaces so quick it staggers you. 

"I _own_ you, babygirl." He growls, the abrupt and ruthless thrust he gives has you cry out, and he tugs on the tie hard enough it catches in your throat. "You _get_ that?"

 _"Y-Yes!"_ It hardly sounds like a word, but it's all you can manage. You're steeped in a dismaying combination of pure fear and arousal.

_He's going to kill me—he's **actually** going to kill me. _

Horrifyingly, the notion doesn't seem to register like it should. You're pushing your hips back against him, chasing the pleasure like it's the only thing that matters—the feeling of his cock stretching you, impaling you, hurling you to that place where _he_ is the only thing that exists. 

He pulls on the tie; it's bruising, constricting your throat, turning your moans into an unintelligible string of whines and choked sobs of desperation. Wrapping an arm around you, splaying his fingers against your lower stomach, he raises and tugs you along, shifting your entire world. it drives his cock right against your g-spot, the scream you give is strangled, dying in your throat as he wraps the tie around his fist, closing like a noose. 

Your fingers curl into his shirt behind you, the ache in your wrists a forgotten memory as pleasure seeps into you, so potent and clear it springs fresh tears to your eyes. Your cunt is throbbing, clenching involuntarily around his thick length, sore but all you want is for this transcended high to be your life forever. It's like you can feel your brain short-circuiting, lack of oxygen flinging you into a blissed out stupor, riding the line between cognizance and the abyss. 

Distantly, you can hear him; violent breaths, deep growls that vibrate against your back— _mine, mine, you are **mine—**_ his teeth sink into your shoulder so hard you scream, your body on the precipice of crumbling to pieces beneath him as he hastily glides his hand down. He presses too hard, circles your clit with his calloused fingertips quick and recklessly, searing pleasure into you. 

Seconds before it hits you, he loosens the tie. Air rushes in, breathing what you can only describe as pure ecstasy through you. You ride out the high with a silent scream, mouth dropped open as it takes it's course. Like electricity, it weaves it's way through the circuits of your body, crashes whatever ability you have to function, renders you to pieces. He fucks you through it with erratic urgency; deep strokes you feel in the deepest part of you, never straying far as he grabs his pleasure and seizes it with vicious growl. 

A stuttering moan sends a new wave of desire through you, making you whimper and then he pushes deep, tugs you close and fills you with a warmth that has you shiver. He drops his forehead to your shoulder, bodies slick with sweat, the sweltering air hot with friction quickly cooling against your skin. 

Your entire body is aching, throbbing, crying out for clemency, but the feeling of his cock still inside you, still hard as he gives a lazy push forward, makes you whine. You push back, thighs quivering and barely keeping you up as you revel in the feel of him. 

"Please..." You breathe, your throat raw and burning. "P-Please, more—I-I'm yours...please." 

You _hate_ it. You hate that he's right, that you are his, no matter what he does to you— _that it's true._ But then he nuzzles his face against your neck, hums with content that makes your hammering heart soar with misplaced endearment, and you think that so long as he makes you feel like this, you'll be anything he wants you to be. 

"Mmm...you know _just_ how to cheer a fella up, _don't you?"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, I got a little carried away. What was _supposed_ to be a drabble turned into a 5k word fic, and honestly? No regrets. This is my first time writing full blown smut, I hope it's not peak cringe, and I hope it tickled your fancy! Also, apologies for any typos/errors, I have no beta and sadly don't have the time to edit myself. 
> 
> Tunes I listened to while writing this include: _Where the Dark Things Are - Kerli, Quantum Immortality - Crywolf_
> 
> Feedback and concrit is so massively appreciated. Thank you for checking out my fic!


End file.
